A Short History of the Trump Family Sidney Blumenthal
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This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse this site you are agreeing to our use of cookies. (More Information) × LOG IN REGISTER FOR ONLINE ACCESS Search the LRB LATEST ARCHIVE BOOKSHOP CONTACT US ABOUT THE LRB SUBSCRIBE CURRENT ISSUE CONTENTS LETTERS AUDIO & VIDEO BLOG RSS Vol. 39 No. 4 · 16 February 2017 facebootwkitter share email letter cite print pages 3237 | 9926 words larger | smaller A Short History of the Trump Family Sidney Blumenthal Sidney Blumenthal The most enduring blight left behind by Donald Trump, long after he has smashed was a senior adviser to things up, will be the pile of books devoted to trying to make sense of him. It will grow after investigative journalists have spent years diving for hidden records, exploring Bill Clinton from 1997 subterranean corporations and foreign partners but never reaching the dark ocean to 2001. The second bottom. It will continue after political scientists have trekked through mountain ranges volume of his Life of of survey data seeking the precise source of his magnetic attraction for the aggrieved Lincoln, Wrestling white lowermiddle and working classes. It will outlast the pundits holding forth on TV, with His Angel 1849 collecting lecture fees and cranking out bestsellers that retail inside dope gleaned, 56, will be published in singlesourced and secondhand, from somewhere near the elevators of Trump Tower. It will not be stemmed even after the memoirs of Trump’s associates, unreliable May. narrators in the spirit of their leader, have been removed from the remainder bins in used bookstores. A week after the inauguration, Nineteen EightyFour and The Origins of Totalitarianism were number one and number 36 respectively on the US Amazon bestseller list, but the truelife Donald J. Trump story has more to do with what Scott Fitzgerald called ‘foul dust’ than with ideas or ideology. Reckoning with Trump means Upcoming Events descending into the place that made him. What he represents, above all, is the triumph of an underworld of predators, hustlers, mobsters, clubhouse politicians and tabloid LRB Screen: ‘Jonah sleaze that festered in a corner of New York City, a vindication of his mentor, the Mafia Who Will Be 25 in lawyer Roy Cohn, a figure unknown to the vast majority of enthusiasts who jammed the Year 2000’ Trump’s rallies and hailed him as the authentic voice of the people. 22 February at 7 p.m. The notion of a Trump literature begins, appropriately, with an imaginary novel, 1999: Casinos of the Third Reich, contrived by Kurt Andersen, an editor at Spy, a New York BOOK TICKETS magazine of the 1980s and 1990s. Over several months in late 1989 and early 1990, Andersen kept referring to the nonexistent Casinos of the Third Reich and its implausible protagonist, Donald Trump, whose narcissistic exhibitionism offered a March Late neverending source of unintentional selfsatire. ‘Who’s my toughest competitor – if Shopping not in content, only in style?’ he asked. ‘Prince Charles,’ he answered. ‘I’m thinking of 01 March at 6 p.m. becoming an entertainer,’ he also said. ‘Liza Minnelli gets $75,000 a night to sing, and I’m really curious as to how I would do.’ ‘Yes,’ Andersen wrote, ‘in the blockbuster 1999: BOOK TICKETS Casinos of the Third Reich, it’s noblemanlounge singer Donald Trump!’ Andersen simply quoted Trump, referred to Casinos of the Third Reich and sat back. Trump did all the work. The fabulous novel had no plot and the protagonist’s character didn’t View all Upcoming Events develop – just like in real life. Spy assumed its readers were in on the joke about the ‘shortfingered vulgarian’. (Marco Rubio flung Spy’s slight against Trump in a debate, without noting its provenance in the defunct magazine, if indeed he knew it. Trump heatedly replied: ‘If they’re small something else must be small. I guarantee you there’s no problem.’ The Trump spectacle often ends with insult imitating satire.) Fred Trump, Donald’s father, was a king of Queens; the Donald became a joker in Manhattan. In search of fame and greater fortune in the big city, he set out from the family mansion with its 23 rooms, nine bathrooms and, at the front, four white columns adorned with a confected family crest. A Cadillac and a RollsRoyce were parked in the driveway, guarded by two castiron jockeys. Even in Queens, it was a world apart. ‘“Be a killer,”’ Fred Trump, ‘who ruled all of us with a steel will’, told him. Then he said: ‘“You are a king.”’ Trump wasn’t looked down on in Manhattan because he was a parvenu, a dressedtokill bridgeandtunnel bounder from an outer borough. New Yorkers hardly have a bias against aspiring newcomers. The musical Hamilton exalts a classic New York story of a brilliant young immigrant rising in a mercantile culture. (‘I hear it’s highly overrated,’ Presidentelect Trump tweeted last November after the cast addressed Vice President elect Mike Pence, as he was leaving the theatre, calling on the new administration ‘to work on behalf of all of us’.) Walt Whitman sang in ‘Mannahatta’ of a city ‘liquid, sane, unruly, musical, selfsufficient’. Trump wished to be more than accepted in Manhattan: he wanted to be adored, there and only there, and came to despise it in all its diversity and cacophony when time and again he was rejected. ‘I want to wake up in a city that doesn’t sleep and find I’m king of the hill, top of the heap.’ The lyrics of Frank Sinatra’s standard ring out like a mocking chorus from the Yankee Stadium when the hometown wins. Poor Trump, who thought the song should be his anthem, could never shake his ‘little town blues’. His humiliation at his failure ‘to make it there’ is at the heart of his vengeful compulsion to wreak humiliation on those he fears will belittle him. The uncontrollable anger that unleashes a regular flood of insults derives from his profound feeling that he has been, is being and will be diminished. In a constant state of alert and hurt, he victimises others because he burns with the feeling that he is the true victim. Every time his outlandish behaviour turns him into the butt of a joke, especially at the hands of sources associated with New York, from Spy’s jibes to Alec Baldwin’s impersonation on Saturday Night Live, his rage is stoked. Portraying himself as the innocent party he lashes out, a narcissistic reflex but also a tactic he learned from Roy Cohn. Resentment born of entitlement, of the feeling that he was being treated as an inferior though he knew he was superior, was an inadvertent and inverse link with the lower middleclass whites who fled Queens and Brooklyn in the 1950s and 1960s for the Long Island suburbs to escape black migration. They went one way and Trump another, but both were repelled by Manhattan’s racial liberalism, which was seen as an insult to and impingement on their own status from those above and below them. Trump’s loathing and bullying are among the few things he came by honestly: they were part of his inheritance. Fred Trump was arrested for participating in a violent Ku Klux Klan rally in 1927; he had Mob ties and flagrantly discriminated against blacks when renting out housing. Woody Guthrie, his most famous tenant, wrote about his landlord in the first literary work on a Trump, ‘Old Man Trump’: I suppose Old Man Trump knows Just how much Racial hate he stirred up In the bloodpot of human hearts When he drawed That colour line Here at his Eighteen hundred family project In 1988, Spy conducted a national poll, the first ever on the presidential potential of Donald Trump. Offered a list of noncandidates, voters were asked: ‘Who are you most disappointed isn’t running for president?’ Trump got 4 per cent of the vote. Tellingly, Spy discovered the celebrity’s irreducible base: ‘In terms of level of education, the voters who most favoured a Trump candidacy – with a 9 per cent rating – were those whose minds remain uncluttered by any learning beyond junior high school.’ Trump was already among New York’s stock cast of colourful characters, one of Spy’s ‘top ten jerks’, joining notorious loudmouths of the era such as the New York Yankees’ bullying owner George Steinbrenner (another Roy Cohn client). From the Bronx to the Battery, opinion on Trump set as hard as the cement on his construction sites and as fast as he had ordered underpaid Polish immigrant construction workers in 1980 to jackhammer the Art Deco friezes on the Fifth Avenue Bonwit Teller building to make way for his tribute to himself, Trump Tower, a slab of banality which resembles an elongated flatscreen TV. He had promised to preserve the reliefs for the Metropolitan Museum, but after blasting them to smithereens to widespread condemnation the Trump Organisation issued a press release declaring that the sculptures were ‘without artistic merit’. Through a PR agent, Trump claimed the demolition was a matter of aesthetic judgment and, he added, cost him $500,000, no doubt a round number pulled out of a hat. In the New York Times the PR spokesman identified himself as ‘John Barron’. In the Associated Press story the same publicity man called himself ‘Donald Baron’ and was quoted as saying that ‘the merit of these stones was not great enough to save them.’ Both ‘John’ and ‘Donald’ were Trump.